I can't figure out if I'm on vacation or not, since I'm still setting really high standards for my days and, like after dinner today, realizing that huge things get in the way (like my job that I forgot I still had this week). This then makes me panic & complain & wonder what I'm doing with my life.
Things were calmer last week, when the most important thing to do was walk Kristen to a garden that is hidden in the wall of the Citadel. I've mentioned some of Nancy's history in the past, and I had a chance to learn more about it while Kristen was here. There's a fun summary of where we spent most of our time, the "Old Town", on this site.
When I was young, I was fascinated by the film version of "A Secret Garden." There were loads of things I loved about it: a vine-covered door, the sound of her black shoes clicking along the cobblestones, her accent, the curly brown hair that made Mary look almost wild with rebellion.
Overlapping this short period of Secret Garden obsession was the construction of my parents' garage. I would slip into my church shoes and sneak out of the house to play Secret Garden, skipping my way along the sidewalk to the freshly dug foundation. On one such adventure, I skipped up to my dad, bent over in the flower beds. "I feel like there's a garden that I've never seen before," I whispered to him in what I can only assume was a horrible British accent.
My dad has frequently reminded me of this moment. I was reminded of it again as we walked toward the citadel, Joe, Kristen and I, passing the gate that leads to the old city and instead turning left and walking through a small, almost hidden opening in the wall.
The ground behind the opening rose steeply and spit us out into a garden overlooking this quiet part of the city. The rows of flowers and herbs were squared of neatly–peonies heavy, ready to burst open in the prematurely warm sun; mint leaves unfolding. I felt like I'd turned a key and walked into my own world. A woman sat on a bench reading; I wondered if she felt this same, if she escaped here often.
The citadel served (as citadels do) as the fortress of the city in the Middle Ages. I imagine its tiny windows serving as spots for archers to hide, shooting out at arriving trouble. I imagine a courtyard jutting off behind the citadel, stretching toward the palace of the dukes, instead of the houses and shops that now line the cobblestone street. I imagine the time when much of the citadel wall was torn down–and then the day when the top of the citadel, no longer needed for protection, was sewn with seed.
I imagine it all leading to this moment, when I walk up the slope and feel like we're all exactly where we're meant to be. I imagine what toilets and sanitation were like in the Middle Ages, and I'm glad my moment came much later–I'm glad I shared it with Kristen.
I'm glad that after this more contemplative discovery, we went on to the Lorraine Museum, where we discovered Bébé, the dwarf of Stanislas's court who measured less than 90 centimeters at his death. I haven't quite figured out how or why he came to be at Stanislas's court, as I refuse to accept the idea that he was adopted to serve as an unfortunate sort of court jester.
More on that later.
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